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Shot Through The Heart (Sorry, Babe)

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 Stiles is just pulling the latest batch of cookies (peanut butter this time, Derek’s favorite!) out of the oven when the front door slams. He cringes and quickly jostles the hot cookie sheet onto the stove top. The oven mitts get tossed on the counter and his frilly pink apron (a joke anniversary gift from Derek two years ago) is carefully straightened.

He makes sure he has a bright, sunny smile on his face as Derek rounds the corner into the kitchen.

“Hi, honey!”

Derek doesn’t say anything. He just scowls, far more intensely than usual.

“Welcome home!” Stiles tries again. “So how was your day at work?”

“You fucking shot me,” Derek says. “That was my day at work.”

Stiles sucks on his front teeth. “Okay, yes, that is true. But.” He gestures at the four batches of cookies on display like he’s Vanna White. “I also made you cookies!”

Derek narrows his eyes, clearly determined not to be swayed by baked goods, no matter how delicious.

“It didn’t hit anything important,” Stiles pointed out, “and you’re all healed up anyway. A nice massage would work out the last of the soreness, don’t you think? I’ve still got some of that nice warming oil from valentine’s day.”


“Okay, if it helps, I was aiming for Isaac.”

Derek rolls his eyes so hard his entire head goes with them. “No, Stiles, that does not help! Stop shooting my deputies!”

“Well, then tell them to stop getting in the way of my operation! Sweetie, we’ve talked about this.”

With a growl, Derek stomps around him to snatch up a cookie. He stuffs it in his mouth and immediately grabs two more. Through his mouthful, he says, “You know there’s only so much I can overlook before people start getting suspicious.”

Stiles sighs. Derek’s a giant ball of bad mood, but he doesn’t pull away when Stiles slides an arm around his waist from behind. He might even relax a little bit, especially when Stiles presses a kiss to the back of his neck.

“I know, babe,” Stiles says. “But there’s only so many times I can get away with handing out strategic retreat orders before I’ve got a coup on my hands. Or I start losing profits because my clients hear the heat is on. I can’t abandon all my storehouses just because you track them down. You’re too good at your job. It’s bad for my bottom line.”

Derek growls again, but only halfheartedly. He is exceptionally good at his job, they both know it, and it’s only because he had the terrible luck to fall in love with the city’s most prominent crime lord that his career has plateaued at Chief of Police. He would be City Commissioner by now if he didn’t have to keep shooting himself in the metaphorical foot to let his husband keep his empire going.

Angry or not, he lets Stiles turn him around and kiss him softly.

“I didn’t think you were going to be there today,” Stiles says. “I would’ve called for a retreat right at the start if I had.”

Derek raises a skeptical eyebrow. “Really? There was three million in rare goods in that warehouse.”

“Three million is nothing next to you.”

The press of dimples in Derek’s cheeks give away the smile he’s fighting back. “You only say that because you won the shootout and still have the three million. If I’d seized it, you would’ve bitched about it for weeks like you did last year with the stolen antiquities.”

“Yes, okay,” Stiles allows, “but to be fair, those were worth way more than three mil. It took me ages to track those down and smuggle them out of Nepal, and then you just swoop in there all badass and steal them right out from under me! It was rude.”

“It’s not stealing when they weren’t yours to start with.”

Stiles groans. “We are not having that argument again. It completely ruined thanksgiving 2014.”

A laugh finally breaks through Derek’s stubborn frown. He drops his head down onto Stiles’ shoulder, arms looping around his back to pull him close. Stiles runs gentle fingers through his hair, chuckling too. Derek is warm and soft against him, and the whole kitchen still smells like cookies, and it’s about as close to perfect as anything Stiles can imagine.

“I’m sorry I shot you,” he says into the quiet moment. “And I’m glad you’re okay.”

Derek pulls back to smile at him, though there’s a touch of wryness to it. “Are you sorry for intending to shoot Isaac?”

“Well, I wouldn’t go that far.” At Derek’s expectant expression, Stiles sighs and offers, “But I will try not to shoot him in future, because I love you and you asked me not to.”

“Thank you.”

“Now” Stiles kissed his husband again, pushing him back until he’s pinned against the counter’s edge. “how can I make it up to you?”

Derek’s lips curve into a grin beneath his. “Oh, I can think of a few ways.”

The cookies are long cold by the time they get around to eating any more of them, but it’s more than worth it.